


Strangers in the Night

by vanillalime



Category: Oz (TV)
Genre: Apocalypse, Community: spook_me, Multi, Spook Me Multi-Fandom Halloween Ficathon, Spooky, Zombie Apocalypse, Zombies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-26
Updated: 2020-10-26
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:47:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27215923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanillalime/pseuds/vanillalime
Summary: Chris shivered uneasily as a strong breeze swept through the woods, rustling the withered leaves on the trees. He zipped up his jacket and contemplated the endless stretch of greens and browns that surrounded them. An ominous cold knot began to form in his stomach."I think we’re lost."Less than thirty feet away, Toby stood motionless, his head down. He gave Chris no sign to indicate that he’d heard what he’d said. Instead, he continued to stare silently at something in his hand, transfixed by what he saw."Isaid," Chris called out, louder this time. "Ithinkwe're LOST."
Relationships: Chris Keller & Holly Beecher, Tobias Beecher & Holly Beecher, Tobias Beecher/Chris Keller
Comments: 12
Kudos: 13
Collections: Spook Me Ficathon, Spook Me Ficathon 2020





	Strangers in the Night

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2020 Spook Me Mult-Fandom Halloween Ficathon. Creature Prompt: Zombies. The artwork prompt used for the story (which is actually from the 2019 Spook Me collection) is included at the end.

Chris shivered uneasily as a strong breeze swept through the woods, rustling the withered leaves on the trees. He zipped up his jacket and contemplated the endless stretch of greens and browns that surrounded them. An ominous cold knot began to form in his stomach.

"I think we’re lost."

Less than thirty feet away, Toby stood motionless, his head down. He gave Chris no sign to indicate that he’d heard what he’d said. Instead, he continued to stare silently at something in his hand, transfixed by what he saw.

"I _said_ ," Chris called out, louder this time. "I _think_ we're LOST."

Toby's head spun around. "I heard you the first time," he retorted. Then he promptly returned his attention to the object in his hand.

Chris bristled at Toby’s dismissive attitude toward what he felt was a rather significant development in their situation. Frustration boiled over, and he flung his backpack to the ground. With a firm grip on his baseball bat, he stormed in Toby's direction. As he drew closer, however, he realized what Toby was looking at.

It was his compass.

Chris slowed his pace, then greeted Toby with a grunt and look of concern.

"We are _not_ lost," Toby insisted in a low voice. Then he added, "I’m just not exactly sure where we are."

Chris grimaced. "That sounds a lot like lawyer-speak for 'We’re lost'."

"Don’t be so dramatic," countered Toby. He backed away and motioned to his right. "The lake is over there. We know that."

"Mmm-hmm."

Toby pointed straight ahead. "The cabin is somewhere just to the north of it. All we need to do is keep walking this way. We have to reach it at some point."

"But you’re thinking we should’ve hit it by now."

Toby looked down at the compass again and muttered, "Yeah."

"Shit." Chris jammed the end of the baseball bat into the soft earth and steadied himself. He looked up into the cloudless sky and analyzed the position of the sun. It would be dark in less than a couple of hours.

"Do you think we should hike back to the car?" he suggested. "Try this again tomorrow?"

Toby bit his lip. "Maybe," he said. "Or maybe… " He hesitated for a moment, then froze. Slowly, he looked up, alarm flickering across his face. He turned his head away. 

Chris held his breath and waited, instinctively tightening his grip on the bat. His well-being depended heavily on Toby’s keen ears. A kiss from Claire Howell’s nightstick years ago had done irreparable damage to one of his own, and the consequences were potentially fatal now.

Several seconds passed, and Chris could take the silence no longer. "Hear somethin’?" he whispered.

Toby swallowed and shook his head. "Must’ve been the wind."

Chris got the impression that Toby didn’t entirely believe that explanation.

"I was going to say," Toby continued, "that there’s a small stream that flows into the lake, about a quarter mile west of the cabin." He waved his compass to the left. "Why don’t we keep going for just a bit? If we haven’t reached the stream after, say, fifteen minutes, then we call it quits for the day."

"And head back to the car?" 

Toby nodded. "And start over tomorrow."

Chris looked up at the sun again. "All right," he agreed. With a toss of his head, he added, "Lemme go get my bag."

He trudged back to the spot where he’d dropped his backpack, picked it up, and slung it over his shoulders. Then he dug into a pocket and pulled out a small ball of bright red yarn. He unraveled a footlong section and cut it with his teeth. 

"I gotta say," Chris begrudgingly admitted, "this yarn idea of yours was a really good one."

Toby responded with a gasp.

"No, I mean it," Chris continued. He reached up and carefully tied the yarn around a branch of a young maple tree. "It feels a little Hansel-and-Gretel-ish, but at least we know we can find our way back to the car."

Chris looked back in the direction from which they’d come. If he squinted, he could see a distinctive speck of red on a distant bush, dancing loosely in the breeze. "Feels like I’ve tied up a hundred of these along the way. Good thing those zombies are too stupid to realize what they mean, right?"

When Toby didn’t answer, Chris shouted, "Right?" He turned back around, seeking affirmation.

But Toby wasn’t there.

Chris visually scoured the immediate area and saw nothing but trees and bushes and rocks. With a furrowed brow, he forced his voice to work.

"Toby?"

Chris stood still and listened hard, as best he could, for any sign of life. Toby’s life.

He heard nothing but the wind as it blew its way through the woods.

Heart racing, Chris quickly reasoned through the possibilities, and he determined that disappearing into thin air was not one of them. Forcing himself not to panic, he walked back to the place where Toby had stood just a minute before. 

Anxiously, he called out again. 

"Toby!"

No response.

Raising his bat to his shoulder, he cautiously stepped forward, then abruptly stopped when something on the ground caught his eye—a metallic object shimmering in the late afternoon sun.

Toby’s compass.

Chris knelt down. He picked up the compass and held it tight, closing his eyes against the horrific visions forming inside his head. He tried to focus on breathing, tried to remain calm.

Instead, the panic that had been bubbling inside his chest erupted. 

He stumbled to his feet and started to run. He called Toby's name out over and over again, constantly scanning his surroundings, pausing occasionally in hope of hearing another voice answering back.

There was none.

Then he ran faster, slipping on damp leaves and pine needles, tripping on rocks and roots, aimlessly trying to cover as much ground as he could. Tree branches whipped his face. Scratches and scrapes drew blood. 

Still, he kept going, kept looking, kept calling.

Ten minutes later, he arrived at the stream. The water level was high, up to the top of the bank. He jogged along its edge, searching for a way to cross. Finally, he found an old makeshift footbridge, most of it submerged under the cold water. There was no way to cross the stream without getting soaked up to the knees.

Chris stood staring at the water and tried to catch his breath. He tried to think. He knew that Toby would never have walked over that footbridge. The only way he could be on the other side of the stream was if someone—some _thing_ —had dragged him through it.

With a heavy face, Chris turned around and looked back into the silent depths of woods. He dropped his baseball bat and put his hands up to his mouth. At the top of his lungs, he shouted:

"TO-BEEE!"

The only response he got was a soft echo, followed by the shrill cry from a flock of geese flying overhead.

Circumstances necessitated a quick acceptance of the situation, and reality hit him like a ton of bricks. His worst fear had come true. Toby was gone. Somehow, they’d gotten to him. 

He was either dead, or on the way to undead.

Chris’s survival instincts were innate and deep-rooted. They had served him well for more than thirty years, and he immediately knew what his next step should be.

He had to get the hell out of there.

They’d left the car sitting on the side of a seldom-used dirt road. Chris had the keys. Getting back to the car would be easy. The trail of red yarn would lead him straight there.

Then he'd drive the fuck away, as fast as he could, and never look back.

Chris picked up his bat.

It was a good plan, a logical plan. A plan born out of a natural desire for self-preservation.

It lasted less than a dozen steps.

As he began to make his way through the woods, the memory of a promise washed over him—a promise he’d made only a few days ago during the rush and excitement of leaving Oz, while he was brimming with confidence and a sense of invincibility, a feeling heightened by the thrill of having Toby by his side.

_Listen, Chris, if things go wrong…_

_They won’t._

_But if they do… I don’t want to end up like that._

Chris reached out and grabbed the trunk of a tree. He spun around—or maybe the world spun around him—and he slowly slid down, crumpling into a heap on the ground.

_Do you understand what I’m asking for? Do you promise?_

_Yeah. I promise._

Chris buried his head in his arms. By the time he looked up again, it was dark.

*** Three days earlier ***

They stood together in the middle of a long line, waiting impatiently, jostling occasionally with the other inmates for position. Toby glared at anyone who bothered to look their way, his jaw set in fierce determination, but Chris saw the anxiety behind his eyes.

"They’re probably already there," he said reassuringly.

Toby frowned. "Maybe, but I doubt it. My father's old fishing cabin is pretty isolated, and all the highways are disaster zones. It'll take them ages to get to there if they have to take nothing but back roads." He paused, then wryly added, "And my mother is a cautious driver even under normal circumstances."

"Okay, listen up!" 

McManus's raspy voice barely carried down the corridor, but silence fell immediately around them.

McManus looked as lifeless as the zombies that lurked outside their prison walls. The week before, he'd been forced to destroy the creature that had once been Sean Murphy, and the act, while necessary, had clearly taken its toll. Querns had disappeared shortly thereafter, leaving a despondent McManus to carry out the duties of acting warden. It was a testament to the state of the world that none of the prisoners had bothered to challenge his authority.

Sister Pete gently nudged a clipboard into McManus's hands. She was the one who now stood at his side in the place where his best friend would've normally been. Of the few remaining staff members, she had been the only one with the fortitude to take over the position.

"We're going to do this in an orderly fashion," McManus declared. "First, I have some paperwork that all of you are required to sign. It's a legal document that absolves the state of any liability due to your death or injury as a result of your release. Second, the state has very generously provided you with survival supplies. After you sign the waiver, Sister Pete will issue you a baseball bat and a compass. The bat is for fighting, the compass for fleeing. You will probably find them both to be useful at some point."

"What about the cars?" Chris called out. "You said each of us could have a car."

A strained smile flitted across McManus's face. "So I did. Head up to the main road, and you will find a parking lot's worth of abandoned cars. First come, first served. Keys are usually in the ignitions." The smile disappeared, and he added, "Be sure to check the back seats and the trunks before you take off, though. That's how we lost Father Ray."

That remark produced a perceptible shuffle along the line of inmates. McManus ignored it.

"As you walk out the door," he continued, "you will see to your left the crowd of civilians who are waiting to get in here. Do NOT engage them. Do not touch them, do not talk to them. Don't even look at them. They are frightened enough as it is."

"Pffft," an irritable Pancamo muttered under his breath. "What happens if we do?"

McManus's head spun around, and he shot a laser-beam glare in Pancamo's direction. "If you do," he snapped, "I will personally go after you and make it my remaining life's mission to remove from your possession both your baseball bat and your compass." The tone he used suggested that this was the worst threat imaginable, and it was enough to shut Pancamo up.

McManus turned to again face the crowd of inmates. "Let me be absolutely clear," he croaked. "Once you walk out that door, there's no turning back. The number of civilians we've agreed to take in is dependent on the number of prisoners who have agreed to leave. You need to think hard about your chances for survival out there. It’s not too late to change your mind, but it must be done NOW. I’ll give you one minute."

Chris pretended not to notice the sideways glance Toby threw in his direction. Wild horses couldn’t drag him away from Toby’s side.

For several moments, everyone was still, then Alvarez slowly stepped out of the line. He silently walked down the corridor and disappeared through the open door that lead back into the bowels of Oz.

When it became clear that no one was going to follow his lead, McManus gave a short wave of his hand. "All right, then," he announced. "Let's get this going."

Thirty minutes later, Chris and Toby had reached the head of the line. Chris quickly signed his name to the liability waiver and watched as Sister Pete gave Toby his baseball bat and compass.

"Good luck," she said softly. "I hope you find your family all right."

"Thanks, Sister," Toby mumbled. "Thanks… for everything."

Sister Pete reached out and embraced him in a warm hug while Chris fidgeted restlessly. As she pulled away, she commanded in a shaky voice, "The two of you… you look out for each other. Hear me?" 

The remark was addressed to both of them, but it was Chris’s eyes she locked in on.

Chris gave her a curt nod of his head to show her that he got the message. She responded by thrusting a bat and compass into his outstretched hands.

"Be sure to use the bats on the zombies, and not each other," she told them in a weak attempt at lifting the mood. 

Chris responded with one of his patented Cheshire-cat grins. "Don’t worry, Sister. Me and Toby get along best when we have a common enemy to fight. Ol’ Vern gave us plenty of practice."

"We need to keep the line moving, Pete," McManus interrupted.

There was a flurry of goodbyes, a rush to the doors, and before they knew it, Chris and Toby were stepping outside. 

Chris immediately closed his eyes against the bright sunlight that felt unnaturally natural and tried to steady himself. He raised his face upward and slowly opened his eyes to the clear blue sky above. He took a deep breath of the fresh autumn air and smiled. They might be in the midst of a horrific apocalypse, but he had Toby and his freedom and the ingenuity necessary for survival. Those fucking zombies had better watch out.

A strange sound from Toby and a commotion to his left brought Chris out of his reverie. A massive throng of people stood just beyond a chain-link fence—men and women of all ages, children of all sizes, all of them anxiously awaiting their turn to get inside the building that they had just vacated. Despite McManus’s warnings, Chris couldn’t help but stare at them, surprised by their sheer numbers. 

Toby nodded toward a nearby section of the crowd where a young teenage girl lay flat on her back. A middle-aged man was fanning her face. "Just give her air!" he yelled. "She’s only fainted!" 

The people surrounding the pair quickly backed away, but Chris noticed the accusatory looks on their faces and sensed their panic.

He grabbed Toby by the arm and muttered, "C’mon, let’s go find a car.’

They began jogging toward the main road, passing along the way a number of the other prisoners who’d been released ahead of them. Poet flipped them off.

"I hope McManus can control those civilians better than he did the inmates in Em City," Chris commented between strides. "Otherwise, everyone inside Oz will be dead within a week, zombies or not."

Toby glanced backwards at the desperate crowd amassed in front of the prison entrance. Then he picked up his pace, saying nothing.

A short time later, they reached the main road that led into Oz and saw that McManus hadn’t been exaggerating. All kinds of vehicles littered both sides of the road, parked haphazardly in every direction. Some had even been abandoned directly in the middle of the road, the owners in too much of a hurry or in too much danger to bother with the proper etiquette for vehicle desertion during an apocalypse.

They walked quickly down the road, putting distance between themselves and the other prisoners. They debated the pros and cons of various makes and models: the off-road capabilities of an SUV versus the roominess of a minivan; the storage advantages of a pick-up truck against the superior gas mileage of a subcompact. 

A shiny red Jeep Wrangler caught Chris’s eye. He began circling it, lovingly stroking it as he went. But when he turned the corner to its far side, he stopped short. The bloody remains of a zombie suddenly lay in his path. 

He’d never seen one before, dead or alive, catching only glimpses of them on the news back before the television stations went down. For a moment, he stood staring at it, telling himself that it was as harmless as any other mutilated dead body. He pushed it roughly with his bat, even though the splatters of rotting brain matter surrounding it pretty much confirmed its status. The zombie shifted, then fell back into place with a thud.

Chris raised his head and looked around. Only then did he see the rest of the carnage—unmistakable lumps of more dead zombies that spread from the edge of the road out into a large field. 

There had obviously been an attack, and someone, or several people, had bludgeoned the zombies' heads to grotesque extremes. Destroying their brains was the only way to kill them, a fitting end to their ghoulish existence, and the slayers had taken the job seriously. 

Chris wondered how long it had been since the battle played out, and who had ultimately won.

Taking a few steps and looking closer, he realized that dead zombies weren't the only remains lying around him. Bones of various shapes and sizes were strewn all around. Some had been stripped clean, glistening white in the sun, while others still held bits of flesh, decaying and maggot-filled. 

Chris had seen a lot of gruesome shit in his life—hell, he'd been the _cause_ of a lot of that gruesome shit—but his stomach lurched at the sight in front of him. He swallowed hard to keep from gagging and tried to compose himself.

Toby.

Chris hadn't heard a thing from Toby since his detour around the Wrangler. He quickly walked back into the road and scanned the immediate area, but he was nowhere to be seen. Chris jogged past several cars, peering in between them, until he finally caught sight of him. He was on the side of the road, kneeling on the ground near the back end of a minivan.

"Hey, Beech, everything okay?"

When Toby didn't respond, Chris approached him cautiously. Drawing closer, he saw a shell-shocked look on Toby's face, and Chris became fearful of exactly what he was going to find on the other side of that minivan.

It was another dead zombie, wearing a floral-print dress soaked with blood. Its brain had been smashed to bits just like the others, but this one had died with something clutched tight in its hands: a half-devoured human limb. Specifically, a small leg. A leg that still had a fuzzy Winnie-the-Pooh slipper on the end of it.

"Aw, fuck," Chris muttered.

He stood there for a moment, then reached down and gently pulled Toby to his feet. "C'mon," he whispered. "Let's get outta here. Let's go find Holly and your mother."

Toby’s only response was a low moan, but with Chris’s help, he managed to make his way back onto the road. Then they wordlessly began to move through the crowd of vehicles again.

A few minutes later, Chris crouched over a mid-size Chevrolet and gave Toby a low whistle. "How about this Malibu?" he asked. "Great condition, decent room, good gas mileage. Nice shade of blue, too." He opened the driver's door and got inside. "Key's in the ignition, just like McManus said."

Toby opened the passenger door and examined the inside, his eyes lingering on the back seat. Chris took his lack of objection as a good sign. "Why don't you check the trunk?" he suggested, popping the lid open. 

Toby walked around to the back, glanced inside the trunk, and quickly returned. He slid into the passenger seat while Chris started the car.

"Tank's more'n half full," Chris observed brightly.

Toby reached into the backseat behind him. Slowly, he dragged something off of it and brought it forward into his lap. It was a large backpack, stuffed full, left behind by the car’s previous occupants for reasons it was best not to dwell on.

Toby unzipped it and began pulling out its contents: a first aid kit, two plastic rain ponchos, several cans of pork and beans, and a small fleece blanket. The side pockets held a flashlight, a lighter, some beef jerky, and a map.

"Holy shit," Chris exclaimed. "We hit the jackpot, huh?"

Toby merely shrugged. He set the map off to the side, then slowly returned the rest of the items to the bag.

Chris studied Toby’s face for a long, hard moment. Already, he could feel him starting to slip away. He had to nip this in the bud.

"Look, Toby," he said quietly. "We knew it was ugly out here. We’re going to see a lot of bad shit, and you need to prepare yourself for that. You need to learn to put it behind you and concentrate on getting to your family. That’s all that matters right now. Got it?"

With a short grunt, Toby nodded his head in agreement.

"All right, then." Chris leaned back in his seat and began adjusting the mirrors. "If all the roads are as bad as this one, getting to your dad’s cabin might be a little more complicated than we thought. You need to study that map in case I need directions."

Finally, Toby spoke. 

"Listen, Chris," he began shakily, "if things go wrong…"

Chris shook his head emphatically. "They won’t."

"But if they do… I don’t want to end up like that. I don’t want to do what that woman back there did." Toby grabbed his arm and waited for Chris to turn and look at him. "Do you understand what I’m asking for? Do you promise?"

Their eyes met in mutual understanding. "Yeah," Chris answered softly. "I promise."

Toby dropped his hand, and Chris put the car into drive. Toby peered out the window and signaled that it was clear to go.

******

The smell of campfire smoke brought Chris out of his stupor. He wiped a hand over his face, then rummaged through the backpack until he found the flashlight. He turned it on and stumbled to his feet, clutching the tree trunk for support.

Zombies were more active at night, but they didn't build campfires. They hated the heat and bright light. Someone else was out there in the woods. Maybe it was someone who might’ve seen something. Something like Toby.

Chris walked in a small circle, sniffing the air as he went. With an exasperated groan, he determined that the source of the smoke was located on the other side of the stream. Of course it was.

He found the old footbridge again, the one that was more below water than above it. He sat down on the bank, took off his shoes and socks, and rolled the cuffs of his pants up to his knees. He draped his shoes around his neck, then gingerly began to cross the narrow stream, holding his flashlight in one hand and bat in the other. The cold water took his breath away, but he steadfastly took one step after another and soon reached the other side.

He quickly dried off and put his shoes and socks back on. Then he forged ahead, using the flashlight and his sense of smell as guides. Before long, he saw the soft orange glow of a fire. Carefully, quietly, he made his way toward the person who’d started it.

Thankfully, Chris saw her before she noticed him. 

It was a young girl, sitting all alone by the fire in a small clearing. Eight or nine, maybe ten years old. Chris wasn’t sure. He’d never been good with kids’ ages. She had long blond hair, big sad eyes, and a nose that…

Chris gasped. He knew that nose.

As his stomach clenched, Holly turned her head and looked directly at him. She held in one hand a baseball bat of her own, and she immediately tightened her grip on it.

Chris tried to regroup. Slowly raising his arms in a gesture of surrender, he took in the details of the scene before him.

She wasn't entirely alone—she had a dog with her, a little black dog. A terrier maybe, that was as silent and still as she was. 

There was blood. On Holly, on the dog, on the baseball bat. He was too far away to tell how fresh it was.

She had a backpack. She’d eaten some food—an empty tin can lay on the ground at her feet, next to a pile of sticks and a box of matches.

She also had that same shell-shocked look on her face that Toby got.

Fuck.

Chris took a couple of small steps forward, cautiously entering the clearing. "I’m no zombie," he told her calmly, in case it wasn’t obvious. "I’m not gonna hurt you."

Holly just sat and stared at him, keeping a firm grip on her bat. The dog began happily wagging its tail, until she made a strange clicking sound with her teeth. Then it stopped.

"Are you all right?" he asked her. "Are you hurt? Do you need any help?"

Holly just looked at him.

Chris carefully dropped his bat and flashlight to the ground. He squatted down on the opposite side of the fire, facing her, and put his hands up to the flames to warm them. He started wondering where Toby's mother was.

"Man, this is a nice fire. Did you make it yourself?"

Holly responded to that by jutting her chin out. Then she picked up a few of her sticks, leaned forward, and threw them into the fire. Chris interpreted that as a "yes."

"No one else is out here with you?"

Holly patted the dog's head, then drew it closer. Apparently, the dog was her only companion. She used the sleeve of her shirt to wipe some of the blood off its back.

Now that he was closer, Chris was able to get a better look at the blood. It wasn't exactly fresh, but it wasn't completely dry, either. Whatever had happened had probably occurred earlier in the day. He studied the baseball bat and noted that it was a hearty Louisville slugger, not the cheap generic shit they'd gotten from Oz. It wasn't Toby's.

His eyes returned to Holly's face, and he saw that she’d been warily watching him as he made his observations.

Chris tugged his backpack off his shoulders. From inside its depths, he pulled out a can of pork and beans and some beef jerky. 

"I'm famished," he lied. "If you don't mind sharing this fire with me, I'll share some of this food with you."

Holly gave an almost imperceptible shrug of her shoulders, but she watched closely as he opened the can and set it down by the fire to warm. Then he stood up and reached over the fire to give her a large piece of jerky. 

Holly hesitated, but laid her bat on the ground and accepted it. She tore the jerky in two and put one piece down on the ground in front of the dog, making that strange clicking sound again. The dog wagged its tail and wolfed it down in one bite while she slowly ate the other half.

They passed the next several minutes in silence while Chris tended to his beans. He was about to offer some to Holly when he suddenly realized that he had no utensils. Holly must have seen the bemused look on his face and accurately judged the situation, because she stood up and handed him her own spoon. 

"Thanks," Chris said sheepishly, and he thought he saw the hint of smile as Holly sat down again. He made a show of wiping the spoon clean, then ate a couple of mouthfuls of beans. He was surprised by how good they tasted—maybe he was hungrier than he'd thought. He then offered the can to Holly. She took it from him, ate a mouthful, and promptly handed the can back.

"Not a fan of beans, huh?" Chris grinned. Holly wrinkled her nose— _Toby’s nose_ —and shook her head. She patted the dog again, and it climbed up into her lap.

Chris felt as though he'd possibly made a small breakthrough. He leaned back against a tree and ate quietly until the beans were gone. Tossing the empty can to the ground, he figured now was the time to try to get some answers. As he gave the spoon back to Holly, he casually motioned toward her bloody bat. 

"What happened?" he asked simply.

Holly stared at the bat for a long moment, and her eyes took on a faraway look. Then she turned away and dropped her head. Her whole body trembled as she hugged the dog tight.

Well, shit. He’d made her cry. 

Chris felt bad for a moment, but then he decided that crying was better than that blank, stunned look she'd worn earlier.

"Hey, I get that you don't wanna talk about it," he told her gently, "but I was just wonderin' what the situation was here. I can tell that you're a really brave kid, but you need to let me know if there’s somebody, or something, I should be on the lookout for."

Holly took a several gulps of air, and gradually settled down. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, but still said nothing.

Chris studied Holly’s sad, dejected form, and knew that it was best not to push her, at least not yet. 

"All right," he sighed. "Maybe what you need is a good night's sleep. You look exhausted. Maybe you’ll feel more like talking in the morning."

He reached into his backpack and pulled out the fleece blanket. 

"I tell you what," he said. "You lie down and get some sleep, while I stand guard and keep the fire going. You can count on me. I ain’t tired at all. If I see anyone, or hear anything, I’ll wake you up right away."

Chris handed Holly the blanket, and she eagerly took it from him. Closing her eyes, she gently rubbed the soft material against her cheek. Then, very slowly, she lay down on the ground, propping her backpack behind her head for a pillow. She covered herself with the blanket, and the dog immediately curled up next to her.

Holly turned onto her side, facing the fire, and pulled her baseball bat close. The dog nudged her hand with its nose, and she petted it. For a while, she stared into the flames, and then she looked up at Chris. Their eyes met, and finally, Holly spoke. 

"I'm not so brave," she whispered. 

Then Holly closed her heavy eyes and shut out the world. Chris didn't know what to say, so he said nothing. Time passed, and slowly, gradually, Holly fell into a deep sleep, keeping one hand on the dog and the other on her bat.

Chris spent the rest of the night watching and listening, tending the fire, trying to think. He didn’t want to give up on his promise to Toby, but finding Holly like this obviously changed things. He couldn’t just abandon her, but he also didn’t want her around when he needed to smash in Toby’s zombified brains.

******

Chris watched as the sky turned from black to charcoal to a misty gray. An apricot-colored stripe appeared through the gaps in the trees and grew wider with each passing minute. Dawn had arrived.

Holly began to stir under the blanket. She sat up, shivering in the cool morning air, and rubbed her eyes. She looked over at Chris, and he nodded his head.

"Mornin'," he said in an even tone.

Holly said nothing in return. She cupped her hands and blew into them, warming them, then reached into her backpack. She withdrew two granola bars and handed one of them to Chris. 

"Thanks," he said, unwrapping it. Taking a bite, he added, "Oatmeal raisin is my favorite. How 'bout you?" 

Holly just shrugged. Apparently, his verbal breakthrough with her had been short-lived. She broke her bar in two and placed one piece down on the ground in front of the dog, just like she’d done with the beef jerky the night before. The dog waited, wagging its tail, until she made her clicking sound. Then it eagerly gulped it down.

The campfire had burned down to its embers, and Chris was getting cold. He was also restless. It was time to do something. 

Toby had said yesterday that the family cabin was only a quarter mile past the stream. For some reason, Holly preferred to be out in the woods rather than there. Chris wanted to know why.

"Well," he began, "I’m going to do some exploring."

He stood up, brushed the granola crumbs off his lap, and slung his backpack onto his shoulders. Bending over, he picked up his baseball bat and half-heartedly swung it through the air a few times, trying his best to envision hitting Toby’s head with it. As he was doing so, Holly carefully folded the blanket and started stuffing it into her own backpack. 

"I want you to stay here," Chris told her firmly.

Holly sat up straight, furrowing her brow.

"Why don’t you collect some more sticks and get the fire going again? That will warm you up and keep you safe."

Holly pressed her lips together in a thin line. She did not look particularly thrilled with his plan. 

"Maybe I’ll run across somebody you know while I’m out there," Chris continued. "Someone who’ll be able to help you. Maybe together we can all figure out what to do next."

He dug into a pants pocket and pulled out Toby’s compass. He moved around until the compass arrow pointed north, then turned so that he faced east. 

Looking back over his shoulder, he said, "Don’t worry. I won't be gone long."

With his bat in one hand and compass in the other, he casually strolled in the direction of the cabin, increasing his pace the further he got from the clearing. Every minute or so, he’d pause and listen, as best he could, for any unnatural noises—for any sign of zombies, or Toby, or Toby's mother. Or any combination thereof.

After about ten minutes, he stopped short and heard the distinct sound of a twig snapping behind him. He whipped around, reflexively raising his bat, ready to attack. That’s when he caught a glimpse of Holly, ducking behind a bush in the near distance.

Chris swore. Apparently, Holly listened about as well as her father.

"Hey!" he shouted through the woods. "I told you to stay put!"

Holly slowly emerged from behind the bush, dragging her own bat along the ground. The dog quickly followed. She folded her arms across her chest in an obvious gesture of defiance, and Chris couldn't help but notice her resemblance to Toby.

Chris motioned to the woods behind her. "Go back!" he yelled angrily. "You hear me? Do what I say!"

Suddenly, the dog started growling. It moved in front of Holly, positioning itself, and hunkered low to the ground. 

With an annoyed expression, Holly made the sound with her teeth. The dog continued to growl. Glancing down, she made the sound again. The dog then began to bark ferociously, and Holly stepped backward in surprise.

"And tell that thing to shut up!" Chris insisted, shouting even louder to be heard over the noise.

Holly looked back up at Chris, and her eyes opened wide. She raised her arm, extending a forefinger. Chris assumed she was pointing at him until he saw how much she was shaking. Then he spun around and saw it.

A zombie, not twenty feet away, heading straight toward him, its arms outstretched. Chris froze in place and made several observations in quick succession…

It wasn't Toby. It was a man—or it had been anyway—who was bigger, taller, older. Somehow, Chris felt both relief and disappointment.

The ghoul walked slowly and clumsily, oblivious to the tree branches hitting its face or the rocks that caused it to stumble, like it was some kind of a grotesque, life-sized marionette operated by puppeteer of limited talent. Its rotting yellowed skin hung loose on the bone, its lifeless white eyes lay deep in its face. Its most unnerving feature, however, was the full set of jagged teeth in its mouth, stained red with pulpy bits of bloody flesh.

A terrible groaning and gurgling noise emanated from it that seemed remarkably familiar. All at once, Chris's mind flashed back to the prone images of Mark Carachi and Bryce Tibbits. His breath caught in his throat as he relived their final moments.

The sudden sound of Holly’s scream broke the spell, and Chris quickly regained his senses. Glancing backwards, he shouted, "Run, Holly! RUN!" 

Then he lifted his baseball bat high in the air and prepared for battle. He was going to show this motherfucker a thing or two.

Chris charged toward it, then braced himself and swung the bat with all the force he could muster. The bat connected with the side of the zombie’s head and promptly recoiled. Pain surged through Chris’s arm. It was as though he’d hit a brick wall.

The zombie’s head dropped briefly to the side, then slowly slid back into place. Blood trickled from its ear, but its dead eyes locked in on Chris. It moved in, slowly reaching for him with moldy fingernails.

Again, Chris lobbed the bat toward the zombie’s head. This time the zombie caught it with one hand and pushed it down. Chris fought to reclaim the bat from its grip and was amazed at its strength. Digging his heels into the ground, Chris pulled and wiggled until the bat unexpectedly came loose, dropping him onto his ass. 

The creature stood over him, groaning and gurgling louder than before, clawing at the air above him as it bent down, getting closer and closer…

Using his hands and feet, Chris scooted backwards along the ground. He scrambled to his feet again and launched into another attack. This time, he misjudged the angle of his swing and hit the ghoul harmlessly in the chest. 

Chris realized that the zombie’s height advantage was limiting his ability to connect blows to its brain. Frustration set in. Killing zombies wasn’t as easy as he’d imagined. Their clumsiness and stupidity were offset by their strength and resilience. He needed to change tactics.

"Hit it on the back!"

The words came from above his head. Chris looked up and saw Holly sitting in the crotch of a large maple tree about fifteen feet from the ground, the dog clutched in her arms.

"I told you to run!" Chris bellowed, more out of fear than anger.

"You need to hit it across the back!" she urgently repeated.

Chris immediately disregarded her advice. Clearly, Holly didn’t know what she was talking about. The only way to kill zombies was to destroy their brains. Hitting it on the back would do nothing but knock it to the ground.

Chris stopped. _Knock it to the ground…_

Suddenly, he understood. He quickly circled back around until he was directly behind the zombie. Then he smacked it across the back as hard as he could. 

The zombie lost its footing and stumbled forward. Chris ignored the pain in his arms and promptly hit its back again. It fell to the ground, landing on one knee. 

The third blow did the trick. This time the zombie landed face first into a pile of leaves, giving Chris the upper hand, literally and figuratively. He took careful aim and brought the baseball bat down hard against the crown of its head. 

There was a sickening crack as the bat broke through the skull. The zombie made the smallest of movements, trying to slide forward. Again, Chris swung the bat down against its head.

Brains and blood splattered everywhere. Although it was likely the last blow necessary, Chris was riding a fierce adrenaline high. He struck it one, two, three more times, until there was nothing left of its head to hit. 

He stepped back and tried to collect himself. He lifted the hem of his shirt and wiped the blood and bits of brain off his face. When he let it drop, he saw Holly standing on the other side of the body, staring at it.

Expecting a look of disgust or perhaps fear on her face, Chris saw instead an odd mixture of anger and contempt. He studied her for a moment, then things slowly clicked into place.

"You knew him," he said. 

It was an observation, not a question.

Holly nodded her head. "It’s Mr. Gallagher, our gardener," she said bitterly. "He begged us to bring him up here. He lost his family a couple of weeks ago and didn’t have anyone left." With flushed cheeks, Holly kicked him in the shin and added, "He started getting sick on the drive. When my grandmother tried to ditch him, he attacked her."

The dog walked over to Mr. Gallagher and relieved itself against his leg. Chris had to grin at the absurdity of the scene, but Holly suddenly turned sad.

"The dog was his," she explained softly. She pulled it back away from the body, then slowly turned to face Chris.

Staring intently into his eyes, she said, "You know my name."

Chris froze, confused, then managed a one-word strangled reply.

"What?"

"When you told me to run, you called me by my name. Holly."

Chris felt like he was back in grade school and the teacher had just caught him cheating. He knew there was no use in denying Holly’s claim. Instead, he stood there silently and stared back at her. And as the tears welled in her eyes, he realized that she had put the pieces together.

She had figured out who he was.

And she knew there must be a reason why Toby wasn’t with him.

Chris dropped his head with a heavy sigh. As he thought about Toby and his promise, his brain solved the mystery of Toby’s absent mother and Holly’s precarious mental state. He thought about what he should do, and about what Toby would want him to do, and was surprised to realize the answer was the same.

Nothing was more important than Holly’s well-being.

He slowly lifted his head and met Holly’s eyes. Then he walked over to her and held out his hand. 

"I’m Chris," he said softly. "I’ve heard a lot about you."

Holly shook his hand, looking back at him with a face full of questions. Questions that Chris wouldn’t—or couldn’t—answer. Not yet.

"These woods aren’t safe," he told her soberly. "We should leave and go somewhere else."

Holly swallowed hard and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

"But first," he added gently. "I want to check out the area around your cabin. I have to see what’s there. Do you understand?"

Holly hesitated, but nodded her head. She examined the wooded area around them, then pointed east. 

"The cabin’s that way. It’s not very far."

Chris wiped his bat on some wet leaves and raised it to his shoulder. 

"My hearing ain’t so good," he told her. "Will you help be my ears?"

Holly nodded. She raised her bat to her shoulder, imitating his movements.

"Good," he said. "Now let’s go see what’s there. We’ll find it together."

******

A short while later, they arrived at the cabin. The secluded dwelling lay nestled between two giant oak trees, with the lake and a small boathouse visible in the distance beyond. Chris snorted in disbelief when he saw it. The old Beecher family fishing cabin was bigger and nicer than any home he had ever lived in.

Chris’s eyes lingered on the shiny Mercedes parked in the driveway. It looked a lot more appealing than the Malibu they'd claimed outside of Oz. He wondered where the keys were.

Holly nudged him. "It’s really quiet," she whispered nervously.

"Like, too quiet?"

Holly nodded. 

"Zombies aren’t quiet," Chris reminded her. "They’re clumsy and loud."

Holly raised an eyebrow. "Not always."

"Well, the dog’s not barking like it did before," Chris observed. "That's a good sign." 

Chris studied the cabin, dreading what he might find inside. Or not find. But he had to make sure that he'd done all that he could to keep his promise. He wanted Toby, and his mother, to rest in peace.

Suddenly, his mind brought forth the image of a fuzzy Winnie-the-Pooh slipper and the unspeakable horrors associated with it. Chris shut his eyes and tried to concentrate on what he needed to do. Then he opened them and forced a small smile at Holly. 

"I'm going inside. You wanna come?"

Holly cringed, and he put his hand on her shoulder. 

"You don't have to. But if you do, you can count on me to protect you."

Holly took a deep breath. "All right."

Walking side by side, Chris and Holly cautiously made their way across the yard. They reached the front of the cabin and Chris carefully stepped onto the porch. A floor board creaked, and the open space around them magnified the sound. Holly fell back, tightening the grip on her bat, her breathing short.

"The door should be unlocked," she whispered.

Chris grabbed the knob and turned. Slowly, he pushed the door open. He peered inside, into the deep darkness of cabin's main room, and waited for his eyes to adjust. He cursed himself for not thinking to get out the flashlight.

He heard a sound from within and froze. A squeak. A loud squeaking sound. Then another. And another. Continuous, rhythmic squeaking. 

It was a chair, a rocking chair, at the far end of the room. His heart caught in his throat as he tried to make out the figure sitting in it, rocking back and forth.

Then he felt a rush of movement at his elbow as Holly flew past him, the dog at her heels.

"Daddy!"

It was Toby. Toby was in the chair, rocking away. Chris thanked God and nearly fell to his knees. Toby, in front of him, all in one piece, not dead. 

But was he alive?

Holly was already in her father's lap, hugging him tight. Chris quickly moved toward them, his eyes beginning to see. Toby was hugging Holly back, but it was without any enthusiasm, more of an absentminded gesture than a conscious effort. Something wasn't right. 

"Toby?"

Chris dropped down and tried to look Toby directly in the eyes. Instead, Toby looked right through him, wearing that same shell-shocked look on his face that he'd worn before. Only much, much worse.

The room was too dark. Chris had to get a better look at him. He walked over to the large picture window at the front of the house and opened the blinds. The early morning sunlight flooded the room. 

Chris turned back around and stopped short at what he saw in front of him. Next to Toby’s rocking chair was a plush leather sofa. And on that sofa lay a zombie.

Or rather, the blood-covered remains of a zombie.

It wore a tasteful cardigan sweater, a white blouse, and black pants. Chris saw a single strand of white pearls below what had once been a face.

Toby’s mother’s face.

"Oh, Daddy! You killed her!"

Chris turned to Holly, anticipating her despair, and discovered instead an unmistakable look of joy on face.

"I’m so proud of you," Holly gushed, hugging her father tighter than ever. "I tried and I tried, but she was so big and so strong, and I was so scared. I couldn’t finish her off. I gave up and ran away. But not you! You did it! You stopped her for good!"

Toby rocked away, ignoring Holly’s outburst, patting her benignly on the back.

Chris gently pulled Holly off Toby’s lap. He still wasn't sure of his condition. 

"Holly, I need you to do me a favor," he said calmly. "Can you get me some soap and water? I want to clean your dad up a bit."

"There's a bucket in the kitchen," Holly replied. "I'll be right back."

Chris watched her as she hurried from the room, the dog following her every step of the way. Then he quickly returned his attention to Toby.

He grabbed the arms of the rocking chair and dragged it away from the sofa, putting greater distance between Toby and his mother. When Toby’s eyes traveled back across the room, Chris grabbed a blanket from the back of the sofa and covered the late Mrs. Beecher’s body with it. 

The less Toby dwelled on that image, the better.

He gathered the hem of Toby’s t-shirt in his hands and pulled it over his head. It was something he'd done dozens of times before, under entirely different circumstances. But now it was like undressing a rag doll. He threw the bloody rag across the room.

Holly returned from the kitchen with a bucket full of warm, soapy water and a sponge. 

"Here you go," she said. She hesitated for a moment, then added, "He’s in shock, isn’t he?"

Chris glanced up into Holly’s worried face. They’d be lucky if it was simply shock that was causing Toby to act like this. But Holly didn’t need to know that. Not yet.

"Yeah, I think so," Chris replied instead.

"There’s a trail of blood in the kitchen that leads out into the back yard. He must have killed her out in the woods and dragged her back in here. I wonder why he did that?"

Chris’s brain started to work out had happened when Toby disappeared. He had seen the mangled remains of his mother—what she’d become, rather—and blindly taken off after her. He’d had the mental and emotional strength necessary to destroy her, but not to deal with the aftermath. 

Somehow, he'd managed to bring her back to the cabin. In his broken mind, it was where she belonged. He'd brought her home.

Chris wrung the water out of the sponge and began wiping the blood and brains off of Toby’s arms and face. He didn’t want Holly standing there, watching, while he evaluated Toby’s physical state. If his mother had managed to bite him during the attack…

"Are there any extra clothes here in the cabin? Can you find another shirt for him to wear?"

Holly left the room, and Chris held his breath as he cleaned Toby up, closely examining every inch of Toby's upper body. He looked for bite marks, scratches, open wounds, anything that might indicate that he’d been exposed to the contagion.

The only thing he found was the faded remains of a hickey on his neck. Chris smiled. Physically, Toby appeared to be fine.

Mentally, on the other hand…

"All I could find was one of Grandpa's old shirts," Holly said over his shoulder, interrupting his thoughts. "It's a little big."

Little was an understatement. Toby’s father had been a large man. The plaid flannel shirt that Holly handed him was at least two sizes too big, but at least it looked warm and comfortable. 

Chris carefully draped it around Toby’s shoulders, pushed his arms through the sleeves, and began buttoning it up.

"Is he… is he…" Holly stammered. "Is he, you know… clean?"

Chris looked at her. She knew what he’d been doing.

"Yeah, he’s fine," he told her. "I don’t think your grandmother even touched him. But she still hurt him. Inside, you know?"

Holly nodded. "Like when I hurt inside," she whispered. She moved closer to Toby and gently clasped his hand with her small one.

"We need to get him outta here," Chris said urgently. "The sooner, the better, in my opinion." 

Then he paused, thinking of how difficult it would be to get Toby back to the Malibu. 

Holly read his mind. "Let's take Grandma's car," she proposed.

"Do you know where the keys are?"

"She probably left them in the car. That's what people do these days."

"All right, then. Let’s get goin'," Chris declared. "You get our stuff, while I take care of your dad."

Holly collected the backpacks and baseball bats while Chris pulled Toby out of the rocking chair and to his feet. He took one of Toby's arms and placed it around his neck, then put his own arm firmly around Toby's waist. 

"C'mon, Tobe," he murmured. "We're gonna go someplace else. You and me and Holly, all of us together."

Toby let himself be led across the room to the front door, where Holly stood waiting. She made the clicking sound with her teeth, and the dog came trotting out of the room's shadows. She opened the door, and they all walked out of the cabin, leaving Toby's mother behind to rot in peace.

They trudged toward the driveway, slowly reaching the Mercedes. Chris peered through the car’s front passenger window and was relieved to see the keys inside the ignition.

Holly opened the door to the back seat. "I want to sit with him," she said emphatically.

Chris nodded his head. "I think that's a good idea."

Working together, they slid Toby into the back seat, and Holly climbed in after him. While Chris walked around to the driver's door, Holly made her strange clicking noise again. The dog hopped into the car, and she closed the door after it.

Chris sat down and adjusted his seat. He looked into the rearview mirror and studied the back seat’s occupants. Toby was blankly staring straight ahead, with Holly curled up beside him. Holly lifted the dog into her lap.

Starting the engine, Chris asked, "Why do you always call for the dog with that sound? Doesn’t it have a name?"

"Oh, yes," Holly replied. "Mr. Gallagher named her Toto. You know, from Oz."

Chris’s eyes widened. "Really?"

Holly nodded her head. "But I never call her that. I don’t like that movie. A lot of bad, scary stuff happens, and it ruins the whole story."

"Oh, I don’t know about that," Chris replied conversationally. "The ending is real nice, when the girl leaves Oz and is reunited with her family, all safe and sound. Everyone's happy. And that makes up for all the bad stuff in Oz, doesn’t it?"

As Holly shrugged noncommittally, Chris caught Toby’s eye in the mirror. Toby was looking right at him, and Chris saw a slow smile tug at the corners of his mouth. 

Then Toby took a deep breath, pulled Holly closer to him, and kissed her on the head.

Chris sighed in relief. He drove the car out onto the road and turned left. He didn’t know where he was going, but he was taking Toby and Holly someplace safe and sound. Someplace like home.

THE END


End file.
